the drug in me is you
by xfucktheglasses
Summary: He was in knee-deep love and she was dancing in the flames. —MinaShina.


**the drug in me is you**

Kushina was a disaster on the run.

There was no other way of describing her, Minato decided, as he watched her pass by, dressed in a black bikini-top and tight, high-waisted shorts with patches sewed here and there. She had colored feathers pinned to her ginger hair and blue face paint marred on either side of her cheek; a cigarette in between her lips and an enormous bottle of Jack Daniels in one of her hands.

She walked like she owned the railroads.

Because that's where they were.

In the railroads, like always.

It was him and her and Fugaku and Mikoto and even Tsume along with Hiashi and Hizashi and it was a wreck but she was disaster on the run.

And Minato was more than fascinated.

.

.

.

"What're you drinking," Minato asked, nonchalantly, hands stuffed in the pockets of his dark jeans.

Kushina looked up at him, from under her swooped-to-the-side bangs, tawny eyes glassy from all the alcohol in her system. Minato decided that Kushina and Fugaku were not a good combination to have around; they both challenged each other. Via alcohol and just… Minato inwardly shook his head. His blue eyes turned to the iced drink at her hand and he already knew what it was.

"Iced tea," she said, grinning sloppily.

Minato raised an eyebrow and allowed a smug look to dominate his features. "Is that so."

Kushina nodded, her grin barely concealing her need to laugh.

"Can I have some, then?"

She stared up at him, her smile stretching her lips and her eyes so shiny and her chest rising and falling and she was so tiny and so beautiful and such a disaster.

Kushina looked down at her drink and swirled it for a second. She was going to give him some, he knew. And he also knew he wasn't going to take any; being DD was such a pain, sometimes.

"Sure!" she thrusted her arm out at him, some of the drink swiveling out of the cup.

Minato looked down at it for a second before crouching down in front of her. He placed a hand over hers and gently brought the drink back closer to her. "S'okay, 'Shina. I already had some."

"'Kayy," she drawled, bringing the cup to her lips.

.

.

.

They were all sitting on the abandoned railroads in the outskirts of town, a fire in the middle of them. It was growing dark and cold and there was alcohol in everyone's system and Kushina was still a disaster, glowing neon in the almost-darkness.

Minato sat next to her as she rummaged through Mikoto's bag in search of something. She was more than likely a bit drunk, he figured, and Minato ran a hand through his messy hair and watched as she took out striped socks and turned to him, a half smile on her lips. "I'm colddd."

He looked down at her choice of clothing, again – the bikini-top, the shorts, the feathers, the face paint ("it's war-paint, Minafishhhh!") and the ever present mess that was Uzumaki Kushina. He shook his head, sighed and plucked the socks out of her fingers and watched her as she blinked.

"But," she said, puzzled, "I'm _cold_, Minafish."

"I know," he said, grabbing one of her legs. "I know."

She smiled once she understood what he was doing.

It was always like this, Minato figured. She was always a destructive mess and he was always putting everything back in order before she noticed what she'd done. Kushina knew little to no boundaries and she took impulsive to the next level. But it was okay, he firmly stated to himself, because she wouldn't really be Kushina if she was stripped bare of impulsion.

"Minato," she whispered, scooting closer to him. Her eyes were trained on the others, watching Tsume and the twins delve into their conversation – argument – about everything, and staring at the stoic and quiet and still-drinking Fugaku as he watched them all and at Mikoto who was swirling her drink and pinching at chocolate chip cookies. "Summer's almost over, Minafish."

Minato grimaced.

"Yeah," he sighed. "It is."

And then it was another year. Same routine but this time it brought seven different roads and something like good-byes and maybe even hollowness. No one really thought about that day, but bury it as they might, it was still going to find its way out and it was still going to find them.

"Will you still be my friend," she murmured, grabbing his hand and placing a cup of Jack Daniels on the rocks right on his palm. "Will you still be my Minafish?"

Minato's fingers closed in around the cup and slowly, with pursed lips, brought it to his mouth. "'Course, 'Shina. What makes you think otherwise?"

"Dunno," she shrugged a bare shoulder.

Minato shook his head and slung an arm around her shoulders, shooting back the alcohol in one go.

.

.

.

It was past midnight, he was sure.

But he didn't care.

None of them cared, as they sat on the railroads, still huddled together, still talking and arguing and staring and still being there. With each other.

Minato paid little to no mind to any of them, his blue eyes dead set on Kushina's form as she twirled and danced around the fire, the enormous bottle of Jack Daniels in her grip, metal necklaces around her neck, her face-paint and her feathers and all her disaster. She tribal danced around the fire, a broad smile on her lips and her tawny eyes closed.

He watched her and he continued to be in knee-deep love with her.

.

.

.

He woke up by the loud whistling of the wind announcing a downpour. He was lying on the back of the old truck, wrapped with blankets and with Kushina curled up at his side.

Minato smelt the mint chapstick still resting on her lips and he stared at her; counted each long, dark-red eyelash that framed her eyes. She was sound asleep, curled up next to him, her face paint rubbing off and her feathers here and there and as the rain began to steadily fall over him and over her and over the others, he wondered how many more times he could wake up this way before it was all gone.


End file.
